


Stars Miss The Sun

by ymorton



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 23:45:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Harry tried a bit of role-play (from silly to sexy to sad)</p><p>Warning: ends with a bit of angst but heeeeey it's okay go look at pictures of them together in London today!! *throws confetti*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stars Miss The Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: 100% false and made up and not true and fictional. 
> 
> Not brit-picked. Sorry!! The extent of my brit-picking is Ctrl+f-ing for the word "bathroom" and replacing it with toilet. 
> 
> Title's from Lana Del Rey's "summertime sadness" because i feel like that's a Harry-on-tour Gryles anthem all hard kisses and lingering touches and depression ;_;
> 
> tumblr? yes! ihavea1dbloghelp.tumblr.com

 

1.

The first time, Harry is quite pissed. They both are, so Nick doesn't feel so guilty for snogging him in the entryway of his flat at half three after a long night out. Harry is eager for it straightaway, tilting his mouth up and making moany little noises and shamelessly trying to ride Nick's thigh like a bloody dog in heat. 

"Mm, popstar, not that I don't appreciate the enthusiasm, but how about we bring it to bed," Nick says, after a long searing kiss, and Harry winds his fingers into the hair at the base of Nick's neck and says, his voice coming out hoarse and slurred, "What if I weren't a popstar?"

"What's that now?" Nick says, patiently trying to drag Harry backwards, because he's seeing this might not be a night that ends in mutual orgasms. It might end in front of the toilet for dear young Harold here, and Nick probably should have noticed sooner. 

"If I weren't a popstar," Harry repeats, muffled into Nick's neck as they make their way into the apartment. "And you were a big radio DJ and I had listened to you growing up and I came to London to find you-" 

"To the toilet we go!" Nick announces, and _now_ he's worried Harry is bloody _concussed_. Wouldn't that be perfect. Barely-legal Burgeoning Superstar Suffers Head Injury From Nick Grimshaw. What a gorgeous and terrifying headline. The Sun would have a fucking field day. 

"Harry darling, can you see how many fingers I'm holding up?" Nick asks, firmly, though to be honest he's still feeling quite drunk himself and his fingers are wobbling in front of Harry's face ineffectively. Harry's eyes are all narrowed to slits. 

"Two," he says at random, not even looking, and Nick sighs. 

"Lucky guess." 

Harry cheers, and then collapses into Nick's shoulder again. 

"And we met in a gay club," he says, like he'd never stopped his drunk little fantasy. "And you bought me a drink and then I sucked you off in the toilets cos I'd been - been thinking about it since I was fourteen, dreaming about it and all and jerking off to your voice, and I just wanted to make you come." 

He laughs, shoves Nick against the wall. 

"No, Harry, we're almost there, nearly there," Nick babbles, and Harry smiles loopily at him and says, hushed like it's a secret, "I'd fucking worship your cock, Nick Grimshaw," and _that_ is just- well, that is just obscene. 

Nick is an adult. Nick is an _adult_. He does not shag too-drunk popstars on the floor of his flat just because they make up some mad tale about worshipping cocks and blowjobs in club toilets. 

"I cannot tell you how lovely that sounds, truly, truly tempting," he says, painfully earnest, and a smug grin curls across Harry's face. "But right now you are going to worship a porcelain toilet bowl for about two hours, if I know my stages of pissedness." 

"M'not," Harry says scornfully. "I can hold my-" 

He stops, eyes going wide, and Nick says quickly, "Right, toilet toilet toilet-" 

Harry makes it there at least, but his legs make a painful cracking sound when he slams down onto his knees and pukes his guts up. 

Nick has to turn away for a moment, but he gets himself together quickly enough and says, "I'll get water, just stay right there." Harry moans in answer. 

When Nick's filling a glass from his filter he hears another retch, and winces in sympathy. 

Harry is slumped over the bowl, his breathing loud and pained, and Nick says, "Oh, darling, we had a bit too much to drink didn't we. It happens." 

"Blech," Harry says, or maybe, "Blergh." Something along those lines. 

"Lift your head, Harry, there's a good lad." 

Nick flushes the toilet, as Harry leans weakly against the wall, his head lolling, face pasty. Nick lays a towel down in front of the toilet for Harry's knees, sets the water down on the floor, and then, last, carefully strokes the curls off Harry's sweaty forehead. 

"You'll be alright, love," he says gently. "Now stay here, sip a bit of water when your stomach's settled, not too much. If you feel like you've got to vomit, do it, you'll feel right better as soon as you do."

Harry nods, and then says, weakly, "Will you stay?" 

Nick turns, at the door. 

"What, here?" 

Harry nods again, drunk and shameless, patting the tile floor next to him, and God help him, Nick stays.

Just for a bit. Harry throws up twice more and then makes it up to his feet and rinses his mouth, gargles a bit of mouthwash and collapses onto the floor, snuggling into Nick's side. 

"Oh," Nick says, half-asleep, shifting to accommodate Harry's weight. "No, let's go to bed. You done, do you think?" 

Harry's snoring already. 

Nick laughs, sleep-clogged and fond, and kisses Harry's still-clammy forehead.

"Poor little popstar," he murmurs, and gets them to bed.

 

 2. 

The second time it happens, they're on the way back from a club in East London, in the back of a car sent for Harry with dark windows and a uniformed driver who doesn't crack a smile once.

Harry leans forward straightaway, nearly toppling off the seat, and says, "John, mind closing the partition?" and then calling, "Cheers!" as it slides shut. 

"Closing the partition, mm," Nick repeats, waggling his eyebrows. "Feels very exclusive back here." 

"Shut up," Harry mumbles, and kisses him. 

It's a long drive back, since there was a match and the traffic is insane around the stadium. Harry climbs onto his lap and snogs Nick thoroughly, wetly, gasping into his mouth. He really is a tart, especially when he's just a _bit_ pissed. It's bloody perfect, if Nick's honest. 

After a bit, Harry wriggles down a bit between Nick's legs, and says, low, toying with the edge of Nick's collar and not making eye contact, "If you were paying for it, what would you want from me?"  

Nick's quite occupied kissing Harry's neck, and it takes him a moment. "Sorry?" 

Harry yanks away and slithers down to his knees on the floor, bracing his hands on Nick's thighs and looking up at him, wide-eyed, wetting his bottom lip. 

"If you were paying for me," he says, hushed. "Would you want my mouth?" 

Nick goggles at him, and Harry ducks his head, maybe sheepish, Nick can't tell. 

"How would you use me if you'd bought me for an hour, Nick Grimshaw," he says, nuzzling his face against the bulge of Nick's cock in his trousers. "Tell me." 

And then, soft as silk, he whispers, " _Please_ ," and draws the zip of Nick's trousers down. 

Nick shakes himself, forces his mouth shut. Alright then. If Harold Styles wants some prostitute role-play in the backseat of a car, Nick can give it to him.

"Just an hour?" he says, and Harry grins up at him. 

"The whole night." 

"Christ, I bet you're costing me a bloody fortune, with that mouth," Nick murmurs, thumbing at Harry's bottom lip. 

"I'm worth it, promise," Harry says, still grinning, and Nick says, low, "Show me, then. Earn it." 

Harry's eyes go dark, and he ducks his head. 

Nick leans back, slides a hand into Harry's hair and lets his eyes flutter shut.

By the time they pull up in front of Nick's flat, he's close, painfully so, but the car door is about to open in ten bloody seconds and Harry won't get off his dick. 

"Stop it," Nick hisses, pushing at Harry's forehead, and his own voice sounds rough and strange to his ears. "Harry-" 

Harry pulls off with a wet _pop_ , giving a last little kitten-lick to the head of Nick's cock, and smiles up at him with his hair askew from Nick's tugging fingers and his mouth full and red. 

"Worth it, then?" 

Nick pulls him upright, trying to tuck his cock in and doing his trouser zip up with one hand. "Not yet," he says, meanly, because Harry is such a little shit sometimes, honestly. It's like he wants to get caught. "Let's get inside so I can see about that tight little arse, rentboy." 

Harry flashes him the most beautiful, delighted grin, and steps out of the car, cameras flashing beyond him like fireworks. 

 

 3. 

The third time, they're not drunk, just knackered. Nick's still nowhere near settled into the Breakfast Show routine after two weeks, and on Friday night he tries to go out and makes it to midnight before he suddenly feels like he's been hit by a lorry. 

Harry's been doing nonstop press all day, and he's been drinking slowly, eyes half-shut and laughing sleepily at what Pix has been saying for the last hour. 

"I'm sorry, I've got to go," Nick says, when he nearly passes out into his second vodka tonic. "I'm dead on my feet." 

"Poor little radio host," Pix coos, grinning, and Nick doesn't even have the energy for a proper comeback. He just yawns in her face. 

"Me too," Harry says, fumbling for his jacket. "Nick, split a taxi?" 

"Certainly," Nick says, flushing, not looking at Pixie. Technically, he hasn't told Harry that he's told her about Harry. But he _has_ , because he's shit with secrets when he's drunk. 

"Have a good night, boys," Pixie says, squeezing Nick's hand and giving him a smirk, and she wanders off to the rest of their group. 

Nick spares them a wave before he stumbles out of the club. 

In the cab Harry nestles under Nick's arm and dozes off, and Nick stares out the window, running his fingers slow through the mop of Harry's hair. 

At Nick's, they both get out. There's no paps, thank the merciful Lord. 

They brush teeth in front of the mirror- Harry has a toothbrush here by now, along with a drawer of clothes, which they're both pointedly avoiding talking about. 

Nick collapses on his side, Harry slithering under the duvet facing him, his eyes gone half-mast with exhaustion. Nick takes a tired moment to appreciate Harry's face- lovely eyebrows, soft eyes, full bottom lip, Christ, Nick's lucky- and then shuts his eyes. 

A moment later Harry tugs at the front of his shirt, his movements gone all fumbly and slow. 

"Grimmy," he says, sleep-slurred. 

"Yes?" 

"What if- what if, like, you were my professor at uni and I always mouthed off in class and you- you had to take me into your office and give me a proper seeing-to." 

Nick opens his eyes. " _What_?" 

Harry is smiling at him, impossibly amused with himself. 

"You had to bend me over your desk and give me a good dicking, so I'd behave," he says, and laughs. "Make me take it, and all." 

Nick shakes his head, incredulously. 

"You're _such_ a secret pervert, Harry Styles," he says, and Harry cuddles closer to him, still smiling. Christ, that smile is dangerous close-up, it makes Nick's chest clench like he's swallowed half a sausage roll in one bite. 

He doesn't even bloody eat sausage rolls. That's Harry's poor influence as well. 

"You would, wouldn't you?" Harry murmurs, and Nick doesn't even really know what he's saying yes to, but he agrees, yes, yes he would. 

 

 4. 

After the show at the O2, they both get properly pissed, with a big crew of Harry and Nick's friends mixed, drinking in the VIP room at some club Nick promptly forgets the name of. 

At one point in the night, they're alone- tucked into the corner of a booth, with Harry slumped back and sipping Jameson, Nick running slow, deliberate fingers along the line of his thigh under the table. He's too old to not know better, but for one night  he lets it go, lets himself be a bit stupid. When he gropes at Harry's cock Harry just sends him a slow, teasing smile. 

Nick takes a deep steadying breath, leans back, stares out over the club. Niall's chatting up one of Nick's friends, grinning at her at the bar and letting her drop a maraschino cherry into his open mouth. It's odd enough that Nick opens his mouth to make a note of it to Harry, but before he can, Harry puts his hand over Nick's on his thigh and says, "Nick." 

"Yes," Nick says, absently, watching as Niall does the same to Chloe. Odd, that. Cherry-based foreplay. Could be fun. A bit sticky though.

"What if we lived in some little town and I was in a band and you were a radio DJ for the local station," Harry says, and Nick laughs, looking over at him. 

"And you played us all the time and I'd come into the station when I wasn't at band practice and you'd let me in the booth." Harry is smiling, just slightly, his mouth tugged up in the corner. 

"So like now, but in some godforsaken country town instead of London," Nick says, looking down as Harry twines their fingers together. 

"Yeah, except I'd blow you under the table while you were on air, make you come in front of all five hundred of your listeners." Harry giggles. 

"Five hundred, ta, love," Nick says sardonically, and then, in realization- "Don't you _dare_ try to blow me on radio, you menace." 

Harry turns his head on the back of the seat and watches him, his eyes tired and warm and fond. 

"You're going to, aren't you," Nick says, all fake-dramatic, because Harry looking at him like that gives him a funny twinge, and Harry's leaving in two days for a month. Nick has no time for funny heart-twinges from transient popstars. 

"You're going to blow me on radio and make me lose my job. Put Finchy in some state of psychological shock, he'll probably murder me in a rage blackout-" 

"Shut up," Harry says, laughing, and then, quietly, "Take me home?" 

Nick squeezes his hand so he won't say something stupid. _A month, Nick, he's gone for a month_ , he reminds himself. 

It's too late, anyway. The twinge-y, painful, lonely future is inevitable, Nick might as well enjoy the ride down. 

 

 5. (and last)

Harry is back for a few shows in April. Nick only knows from the tabloids, since it's been a good three weeks since they've texted, or spoken on the phone. 

He's not sure why. He's not sure of anything, except that alcohol has been very helpful.

He could call Harry himself, he knows that, but he can't bear the thought of Harry not answering- or worse, answering, and then saying, "Nick _who_?" 

Alright, he knows that wouldn't happen, but still, every time he picks up his cellular he pictures the inevitable gut-ache of Harry being polite and awkward and trying to get off the phone and back to his shiny popstar life, and he just can't. 

So Nick's a wimp, so what. He's gotten this far in life by never taking stupid emotional risks. He's done alright. 

The night of Harry's last show in London- before he starts gallivanting around all of Europe, and then North America for ages - Nick's lying in bed chewing his fingernails. It's nearly midnight, and he should be asleep before work, but he's not. 

He texts a few people back, answers an email, scrolls through Twitter, pulls a third blanket over him and thinks about getting a puppy for the umpteenth time, and, suddenly, like it's what he's been staying awake for, his doorbell goes. 

He sits bolt upright, feeling suddenly terrified. 

 _help am possibly going to be murdered doorbell has just gone_ , he sends off to Aimee, as insurance, like, and then he stands up. 

When he peeks through the door there's a familiar mess of brown hair and his stomach flips so fast he clutches at it. _No_. 

But yes. Yes, it's Harry, alone, Harry Styles, who finished a show at the O2 only two hours ago and who's already been spotted at two different clubs in London, according to the #HarryStyles tag on twitter, which Nick may or may not have been checking obsessively like a fourteen year old girl.  

Nick pulls the door open, and Harry looks up. His face isn't grim, not exactly, but he's certainly not smiling. 

"Hi," he says, and Nick opens the door wider, wordless, and nods him in. 

Harry scrubs a hand through his hair, says, "Looks nice in here," and Nick nods, dumbly. 

"Thanks." 

There's a silence. 

"So, er, how've you been," Nick starts, and Harry looks up at him, and- _shit_. He's angry. Nick nearly jumps backward. Christ, maybe he will get murdered. 

"Been _great_ ," Harry says, with a mean twinge to it. "Just great. You know. I s'pose we split up at some point, I must have missed that, but other than that, I'm just wonderful." 

"Split up?" Nick says, his throat going all clenchy and nervous. 

"Yeah, Nick! Split up!" Harry's voice is as heated as it could ever be. "If you didn't want to see me when I was on tour, maybe that's something we could have discussed-" 

"You haven't called in three weeks!" Nick says, surprising himself with how loud his voice comes out. "I'm meant to be the one who calls and texts and acts desperate, am I, because _you're_ the popstar and I'm just pining away at home? Is that it?" 

Harry's eyes flicker. 

"I texted you last," he says. "You never responded." 

Oh, Christ, this is like something out of secondary school. 

"You only sent good night and two Xs, Harry, that's not exactly something I needed to respond to!" Nick snaps back. 

Well, so, they're both in secondary. Whatever. 

"I called you-"

"I called _you_ , Harry, and you didn't answer, and you didn't call back-" 

"You didn't leave a message, I thought you were doing something for radio!" 

"Well, I wasn't." 

"Well, I'm _sorry_ , then," Harry says, with a big shaking breath, and suddenly Nick lets out a helpless laugh. He clamps a hand over his mouth. Oops.  

Harry glares at him, and then, slowly, his face relaxes. 

"What's so funny," he asks, suspiciously. 

"Just- this is so _stupid_ ," Nick says, voice going high. "Who didn't text and who didn't call and you texted me last and blah blah blah." 

"Doesn't feel stupid to me," Harry says, all defiant, pouting, and Nick says, "I mean, you're here, for the first time in a month, and we're doing a bloody play-by-play of our phone history." 

He leans back against the wall of his entryway. 

"I missed you," Harry says quietly. "If that's not _stupid_ to say, or whatever." 

"I had a nightmare where you forgot who I was, it was horrible," Nick admits, and Harry lets out a bark of a laugh and comes to him, throws his arms around him. 

He smells good and familiar, like cologne and expensive alcohol and a hint of stage-sweat. Nick breathes him in, the sticky product in his hair and the slight weight of his body, and feels so stupidly happy he nearly laughs again. 

"Harry Styles," he says, because he's afraid if he tries to say anything else it'll be soppy and pathetic. 

"Nick Grimshaw," Harry says, dimpling at him, eyes soft, and then he tugs on Nick's arm and says, "I could never forget you." 

Nick's throat goes all funny again, and he can't think of anything to say. 

He drops to his knees, instead, and Harry says, "Nick," all soft, already jutting his hips out and stroking at Nick's cheek with one fumbling hand. He's tall above him, a warm presence before him, and Nick feels tiny and stupidly awed, like this is worship, some twisted form of religion. 

He undoes Harry's zip, pulls him out, takes a quick lick at the head because he's shameless and it's been ages. 

When he sucks at the underside, just for a moment, Harry's head thunks against the wall and he lets out a soft, pained breath. 

"Nick," he mumbles again, his fingers stroking at the back of Nick's head. "Fuck." 

Nick's eyes are shut and he is letting himself enjoy this. He's joked about sucking cock with his friends, about how he's too old for it, for blokes who pull hair or come too soon or try to come on his face, but it's different with Harry. 

Everything's different with Harry. 

No, Grimshaw. No philosophizing while a nineteen-year-old's cock is halfway down your throat. Focus on the task at hand. 

Harry scratches at Nick's scalp when he's near coming, says, hoarsely, "Nick, m'gonna-" 

His hips arch up off the wall, knees shaking, and Nick swallows as Harry comes. He pulls off slow, lifts Harry's shirt and runs his thumbs over the trembling skin of Harry's stomach, the trickle of hair down his belly and the shape of his hip bones. 

He missed this body. Everything else, too, but this- _body_. He presses a kiss to the flat of skin right below Harry's navel, and Harry touches his ear, his hair, and says, "Nick, can you fuck me?" 

Nick ducks his head. Harry may be the one who's just come, but Nick isn't sure if he could stand up right now, legs gone wobby. 

It doesn't matter, though, because Harry slides to the floor, comes face-to-face with him and cups Nick's jaw. 

"Haven't even kissed you yet," he says, cheeks flushed and voice fucked-out, and then he has, he does. Harry licks into his mouth, no mind paid to the fact that he just _came_ there, and Nick runs his hand up into Harry's hair, tugs just slightly just to feel the moan Harry lets out, soft, vibrating into his mouth. 

"Yes, yeah," he mumbles into the kiss. "Bedroom. Now." 

Harry laughs, stumbles to his feet and offers Nick a hand. 

Nick works him over slow, never mind the late hour and the hard insistent press of his cock in his pants. Harry stretches out, gloriously naked, and smiles up at him when Nick says, "Ah, Christ, popstar, I suppose I  _have_ missed you," just as he sinks two slick fingers deep inside him. He takes it all beautifully, lets Nick finger him back to hardness and then starts to gasp, push, beg with his hands and his eyes for Nick's cock. 

Nick gives it to him, sweetly, rolls a condom on and slicks up and gets to it. He's a people-pleaser, what can he say. 

With the first push inside Harry's eyes roll back in his head and he looks utterly grateful. Harry Styles, grateful for his cock, now that's an image that won't leave his head too quickly. 

"Fuck, Nick," he mutters, already rolling his hips up into the thrust, like the slag he is. "Oh, _fuck_." 

"Been a while?" Nick asks cheekily, near-gasping for air, and Harry tightens all his muscles on purpose, grins at him as Nick chokes and says, "Perhaps." 

"Menace," Nick gasps, bracing himself on one elbow, Harry's legs up around his waist. "Oh, you horrid thing." 

"Fuck me," Harry groans, far gone, and Nick shuts up, does as Harry asks. 

Harry comes first, again, spilling hot and sticky all over his belly, working his cock with one hand, breathless and pleased at himself. It sets him off spasming round Nick's cock, sets Nick off hard, makes him come just like that. Even when he's been thoroughly fucked, Harry is so tight, his arse milking the orgasm out of Nick, slowly, on the edge between pain and pleasure. 

Nick gasps stupidly into Harry's face for a minute or two, until Harry pushes at his hips and wriggles upward. 

"Out," he mumbles, and Nick carefully does as he asks, feeling with his fingers around the fucked-out rim of Harry's arse as he slips out, wet and slick with lube. Harry shivers, bites his bottom lip at the touch, and Nick wants, with a horrible urgency, to do it all again, never _stop_ doing it. 

But no. They're not the both of them nineteen. Nick is the adult, in a few ways at least. He tugs off the condom, tosses it in the bin by his bedside and curls up to Harry's side. Harry is dabbing come off his chest with a tissue 

Harry turns to look at him, smiling, lazy and sated. 

"That was nice, thank you," he says, and Nick snorts, poking Harry in the belly. 

"God, you sound like I've given you a birthday present or something." 

"Thanks for the shag, Mr. Grimshaw, it was lovely!" Harry says, and breaks into giggles. 

"You're mental," Nick says fondly. "Absolutely mental." 

Harry looks up at the ceiling, still smiling. 

There's a silence. 

"I have work in-" Nick grabs his phone from the bedside table. "- Five hours, cheers." 

"I'm not really sorry," Harry says, slow, possibly half-asleep. 

Aimee's texted him - _hahaha you're so antisocial, loser_ and then twenty minutes later _WAIT ARE YOU ALIVE IM SCARED NOW_

He taps out _ALL CLEAR xx_ , just as Harry says, softly, "Grimmy?" 

"Yes love," he says, checking his other messages and setting his phone down. 

Harry's rolled onto his side, facing him. His hair is sweat-tangled in curls around his face, his cheeks still flushed a healthy pink.  

"What if we were-" he starts, and Nick laughs. 

"Not this again." 

Harry bats at him like a kitten, says, "Heyyyy." 

Nick strokes a hand over his bare side. "What is it, then?" 

"What if - do you think, if we were different. If we hadn't done any of this, and we were different people. Lived in, like, Cambridge or something. And I went to school, worked in a bakery like I used to, and you did something, whatever. And- and we met, there." 

His head is turned down, one hand twisted in the sheets between them. 

"Do you think it would have worked out," he says, very quietly. "Like. You and me."

For the first time, Nick actually thinks about one of Harry's weird little role-play scenarios, _really_ thinks about it. Sweet-faced Harry at uni, with an extra stone on him from eating pastries and not being an overworked personal-trained popstar. Nick doing something boring in an office and getting pissed on weekends in grotty bars. Sharing a cozy little one-bedroom, a puppy maybe, wearing each other's jumpers and having loads of sex, falling asleep together every night. 

No cameras, no premieres, no concerts, no tour. None of that. 

Nick's throat is hot. 

"I think we would have been disgustingly happy," he says, slow and a bit pained, and Harry looks up at him. His face is sad.  

"S'not how it is, though," he says, biting his bottom lip. "And we're not gonna-" 

"Harry." 

"No, let me talk," Harry says, fiercely, grabbing Nick's hand where it's resting against the bed. "Nick. I'm not a child, I know how this works. We say that it'll be fine and then you stop calling or I get busy and it doesn't, it won't feel like this-" 

He stops, choking up, and Nick touches his cheek. 

"Harry," he says, low in his throat, and after that he doesn't know what to say. 

He's not sure what to tell him. Harry's right. Nick's not cut out for the long-suffering tour girlfriend life, it drives him mental, he knows that just from the past month. And Harry works so hard and has so much to do and he's so _young_. 

God, he's young. 

"Nick," Harry says, small, like a confession. "I don't want to leave." 

"Stop that, yes you do." Nick shakes his head. "You do. I'm not going to _convince_ you how much you want to be a popstar, Harry Styles. Listen, we'll- it'll work out. When you're here we can - we can do this. If you like. And if not, well, it was lovely." 

"Don't say it was lovely, you arsehole," Harry chokes out, voice cracking, and he rolls forward, puts his face into Nick's chest. 

Nick puts an arm around his back, swallowing hard. 

"Oh, darling," he says, because there's nothing else, and it sounds comforting. His stomach feels hollow and aching and Harry is shaking faintly underneath his palm, like he'll come apart if Nick doesn't hold him down. 

He almost caves. He almost pulls Harry up and says something like _we can work this out, we can do this_ , and makes up some ridiculous plan about who will call who on which nights, how many times they'll text per week, Skype dates, pictures, phone sex etiquette, all of those silly things that make up these sorts of big huge empty promises of love. 

But he doesn't, he can't. Harry can only see those bits, the happy bits, but Nick knows what lies next- all of the nights alone, all of the drinking and helpless stupid crying and having to talk about him on the radio and getting angry over little things and missing him so much it feels like a stab to the heart every time someone mentions him, which is about once every ten seconds in bloody London. 

Nick can't do that to himself. He is old enough to not _do that to himself_. 

Harry pulls back after a minute, swiping a palm over his eyes. 

"Going to have a shower," he says, dully, and Nick nods hesitantly. 

Harry rolls off the bed, and Nick lies back, not at all sure where they stand. 

He's half asleep when Harry crawls back into bed behind him, smelling of Nick's shampoo and still damp-skinned. 

Harry curls behind him, touches Nick's stomach with one hand and says, "Shh, go to sleep." 

Nick needs no further invitation. 

His alarm goes off promptly at five, and he grumbles into his pillow. 

"Up, Grimmy," a voice says, way too loud, and he cracks one eye open. Harry's holding out a steaming mug of tea. 

"What're you doin'," Nick mumbles. 

"Getting you up, idiot." Harry prods at him with a foot. "I'm pouring this over you if you don't get out of bed right now." 

"Ruthless," Nick says, coughing to clear his throat, but he rolls out of bed and takes the mug. Harry is wearing faded gray jeans he must have dug out of the drawer he used to keep his things in, and one of Nick's t-shirts. He's got sunglasses on his head, his hair wild from sleeping on it, his phone tucked into his front jeans pocket.

"I have to go," he says, as Nick sips the tea gratefully. "Got a car coming." 

Nick looks up at him over the rim of the mug. "This early?" 

"Have a flight and all," Harry says. He's yet to show much on his face. He looks tired. "But. Have a good show." 

It's such a paltry goodbye, what with the length of the separation stretching out before them.  

Nick sets the tea down, draws Harry into his arms, and like he was waiting for it, Harry lets out a long shaky breath.

"No, Nick, I- I have to go," he says, voice wobbling, drawing back. He's blinking a lot, not looking at him. 

"Well. Have a good flight," Nick says, puzzled, and Harry looks up at him, his eyes big and lips drawn tight. 

Just like that, Nick gets it. Harry is trying to spare them both, trying not to make a scene and break down.

Maybe he's not as young as Nick gives him shit for. 

"Just- I'll see you, sometime," Harry says, flat. 

"Be good, be careful," Nick says, tugging the hem of Harry's t-shirt. "Don't be a stranger." 

Harry nods slowly. 

"Bye then." His voice cracks. 

"When you get back- whenever. Call me, do you promise?" 

Harry nods. "I will," he whispers, and turns around frantically, blinking. "I have to go. I- bye, thanks, for. For last night and all." 

"Goodbye, popstar," Nick says quietly. Harry offers him a weak smile, and just like that, he's gone. 

Nick stares numbly at the empty doorway until his second alarm goes, and he shakes himself, fumbles for his phone to turn it off. 

In the end, they are who they are, and neither one of them can change it. 

Maybe someday, Nick thinks, and the thought makes him smile faintly to himself. S'enough for now, anyway. 

 


End file.
